DAY AFTER DAY, my uneasiness grows. The group of men and women at the corner gazing out to sea with their black cloaks flapping in the breeze are making me increasingly jittery. Klaus says they are allowed to stand wherever they want as long as they don’t obstruct justice or the traffic.
The boy downstairs is now a random presence in our life. He leads a busy social life with an older group of friends, but occasionally the doorbell rings and there he is. There are good days when Simone seems almost like any other teenager in Sam’s company, her cheeks flushed as he flirts and they chat and laugh, but on the bad days she stays inside the apartment, pasty faced and hardly eating. Ever since the seagull incident, the slightest sound outside makes her jumpy.
The intercom beeped late one night. I tried to ignore it from my warm bed but it wouldn’t go away.
‘The young missy sleep at the bus stop. You come.’
‘What …? Who is that?’
‘You come. My name George. The yellow bib man.’
I turned into the corridor that led to Simone’s bedroom, almost stumbling over Truschka, who was ahead of me. She wasn’t in her bed. I didn’t know a George. There were different yellow-bibbed parking attendants all the time. Black foreigners that melted into the sea mist background and re-emerged like nocturnal spooks.
Simone was where the intercom caller said she’d be: fast asleep on the bus-stop bench. My breath caught at the fragility of her, caught up in a pool of light, curled up in a corner, the long loose hair, her legs going blue from cold. Talking to her quietly, I wrapped my dressing gown around her and coaxed her to her feet. George stood watching, his face inscrutable. His real interest was in how he was going to eat tomorrow. This mad white girl was a potential meal ticket. I gave him R10 in case it happened again. The yellow-bib man had been co-opted into the protection racket.
‘In Tanzania I security guard,’ George said, cementing our unspoken deal.
I held Simone against me, using my strength to hold her up, as I never could when she was awake. Mrs Shimansky’s door flew open as if she’d been waiting. Those bat ears were paranormally sensitive after decades of surveillance practice.
‘Is she all right? Do you want my help?’
‘She’s fine, thank you. We’ll manage.’ Damn the bloody ancient lift that took forever.
‘My sister used to sleepwalk.’
‘She’s just nervous for exams.’
‘My sister started sleepwalking at boarding school. She never grew out of it. My parents went to psychologist after psychologist, but nothing helped.’
‘She does − not − need − a psychologist.’ The old crone stood there, watching us with her black eyes. If I could have pecked her eyes out, I would have.
‘The Van Rensbergs want to sell. A ground-floor flat is safer. You should speak to them.’
‘We’re fine just where we are, thank you,’ I managed to grate out. The lift had mercifully arrived.
‘Have it your way. Try not to wake the whole building up next time. That foreigner won’t be allowed in next time. It will be on the security incident report.’ The door slammed shut.
Bitch.
I bundled Simone in and the lift rose with a tired groan. Simone mumbled incoherently.
In the days that followed George’s intercom buzz, Simone continued her sleepwalking forays but I managed to restrict them to the apartment. At least she appeared to sleep and usually found her own way back to bed. It was not the same as the enforced wakefulness I endured. Night after night I lay awake in the darkness, alert to the sound of her bedroom door opening. If I fell asleep, I’d leap up and go and check on her.
Some days she wouldn’t allow me to drive past the corner where the crow-people stood. I would have to go all the way round. If I ignored what I called her ‘antics’, she slid down under the dashboard and I’d have a pounding headache by the time I got to work.
At night I locked every door that led out of the apartment, including the balcony door, and kept the keys with me on a big key ring like a Châtelaine of old. Most of the windows that opened were ’70s-style louvre windows, which meant one thing less to worry about. She wasn’t about to lever glass panes out of their metal frames.
One night I found her huddled next to the toilet, shuddering with cold in a deep unreachable frozen realm, her body slowly turning to blue ice. An Arctic wind funnelled in through the small high window. I got her back to her bedroom and put thick socks on her feet and piled blankets and duvets on top of her. After a frenzied search I located my student hot-water bottle among some stuff I’d brought from my Before Daniel days. He’d teased me about the hot-water bottle, saying it was something only a spinster could have in her bed. Somehow I felt better when I’d carefully placed the wrapped hot-water bottle inside her arms. I lay on the carpet next to her bed under a blanket, promising myself to get a foam mattress and keep it rolled up somewhere for nights like this, listening as she tossed and turned and pleaded. The next morning she shivered as she moved her spoon aimlessly around her plate, and her cheeks were flaming outposts to a far galaxy. A thermometer confirmed she had a raging temperature. I’d have to call the school and I’d have to change my whole day around on the hop so I could be there when our GP made the house call.
That was the day I snapped. After that achingly long, sleepless night. They were there every morning, inclining their heads solemnly as they hurried along next to moving cars, passing a flyer through open windows to curious drivers, a gathering of crows waiting for someone vulnerable to stop so they could swoop in. It took me a minute to halt my car on the sidewalk and cross the road. I marched up to the closest member of the group and started tearing up his leaflet, making sure that it was in a million little pieces, in full view of morning traffic. Then I grabbed him by the shoulders of his outlandish black cloak and shook him like a demented woman, screaming breathlessly, ‘Just leave us alone, why can’t you do that? Just go back to wherever it is that you’ve come from!’
His body seemed to shrink out of my hands so that I expected at any moment to see a crow fly away in his place and be left holding nothing but cloth. My hands loosened involuntarily, and he stepped back and raised his palms in the air so that a passer-by might have assumed he intended no offence, but I knew differently – I recognised him as a priest with ritual powers, and his pacifying gesture infuriated me so much that I tried to punch him as the strong female characters did in the movies. But he neatly sidestepped my swinging arm, and I stumbled and found myself on my knees, my hand high up against my back and horrific pain ripping through my shoulder. One of the black cloaks had demobilised me in a single movement. I was encircled by black cloaks hissing something beneath their breath and there were black wings beating and I was having trouble breathing. All at once a male voice said softly, ‘Laissez-la …’ Let her go. And I was freed. A leaflet fluttered down next to me. Jesus the Revolutionary …
When I looked up, one of the traffic policemen who’d come to our flat about Daniel’s fines, Qamarana, had joined the fracas. He turned away from talking to one of the crow people, a crow with long black hair to his shoulders, young to be playing the leader, and said with some satisfaction, ‘I saw that, lady. That was a clear case of attempted assault. You can’t just go around klapping people because you don’t like their religion. Not in this country. I’m taking you in. A night in the cells will cool you down sharp.’ I tried to explain, but he jerked me up and put me in handcuffs before I could count to three.
‘I want to see your badge,’ I managed to say. He took out an ID card and shoved it up against my nose.
‘Happy?’ he snarled, breathing garlic over me. It was déjà vu and we both knew it. I was going to keep asking that question and he was going to keep putting his ID in my face.
The black cloaks stood watching, whispering among themselves like birds in trees.
‘Thank you, Sir, we appreciate your assistance,’ the young man said, his French-accented voice dripping obsequiousness. His eyes met mine with cool disregard.
‘He’s not a policeman,’ I yelled to the onlookers who had gathered as the uniform dragged me away. ‘Don’t let him take me away!’ I caught a glimpse of shocked faces in cars driving past as I writhed and squirmed, but nobody intervened.
Van Zyl turned around from the driver’s seat and grinned at me as Qamarana shoved me into the back seat of the traffic services car. ‘Morning, Mrs de Luc,’ he said, and my flesh crawled. A few moments later my handbag and phone were thrown onto the seat next to me.
At the Camps Bay Police Station, the policeman on duty was opening a case of car theft for the man in front of us, and it was cramped in the small space, so Qamarana pulled me by the arm to one side. He took hold of my handcuffed wrists and shoved me up against the wooden counter so that my breath was expelled as my ribs connected with it. ‘Hey,’ I managed to get out. ‘Are you always such a total cretin? I bet you were the school bully.’
I felt his ramrod hard member against my back and I heard his voice close to my ear, cold and vicious. ‘I’m tired of your crap. If you don’t shut your trap, I’ll shut it for you.’ He leaned over me so that I could feel the hot, sweaty length of his body pressed against mine, and my heart pounded erratic and fast.
‘She’s one of these intolerant crazies that don’t like bible people,’ he said. ‘She attacked one of them. You better keep an eye on her.’
‘You’re joking, right? You saw that guy almost broke my arm?’ Muffled by Qamarana’s heavy body my voice sounded nervous and fearful. To the policeman I said, ‘I know my rights, I want my lawyer.’
Qamarana eased himself off me but not before he’d shifted hands and run his free hand over my butt. I didn’t get a chance to do anything. Another waiting policeman was grinning knowingly at Qamarana, who tick-tocked an index finger to his forehead and said he must get back out on the road, this uptight white chick had wasted enough of his time.
The contents of my pockets and handbag were put into brown envelopes, and once I’d signed the inventory, the second policeman opened a metal door and signalled I should walk ahead of him to the holding cells at the end of the dimly lit passage. I started to shake and couldn’t stop. This was a first for me.
There were terrible stories that did the rounds at suburban dinner parties about what happened in overcrowded holding cells. Fortunately it was a quiet weekday and I ended up being locked up alone, with the neighbouring cell occupied by a body huddled on the floor. The toilet in my cell was blocked but I managed to get it to flush, just to get the worst stench away. There was a trickle of clean water coming out the tap of the small washbasin, so I wet my hands and patted my face and settled down for a long wait. The apparently dead person next door emitted a groan, and the unmistakable aroma of puke and methanol reached my nostrils. My brain started to work again. I yelled down the passage that I knew Detective Klaus Knappman of the Organised Crime Unit personally and that I wanted my one telephone call.
My lawyer, Hans Merensky, got me out within a couple of hours. The black cloaks declined to lay charges. He confirmed what I already knew: Mr Garlic-Breath and his compadre were the real thing. My wrists had dried blood all over them from struggling against the handcuffs, and I was still fuming that I was the one who got arrested − as if I was the dangerous one − but it was more than that now.
Qamarana had made it personal. The sexual groping was meant to rattle me; he wanted to show me that he could hurt me badly any time he wanted to. I already knew how easy it was for him to barge into our apartment. There was something about the big traffic policeman that made my scalp tingle. It wasn’t just that I hadn’t treated him with the respect he felt he deserved. And why did he keep popping up? There are no coincidences. I insisted on taking a photograph of my wrists with my mobile in everybody’s presence and laying a charge of unlawful arrest and excessive force against Qamarana. Merensky assisted patiently, although he advised me against wasting my time. I figured they’d at least have to have an investigation and that would keep Qamarana away from us for a while.
‘What’s going on, Paola?’ my lawyer asked as he walked me to my car.
‘They’re evil. They want to take her away. I have to stop them.’
‘You were lucky today. Another day you might not be so lucky. Concentrate on getting your life together.’
‘Did you get any information on them?’
He was reluctant to answer, shaking his head, but he did. ‘They’re just some religious wackos from France. The police were asked to keep an eye on them to make sure there was no international incident. Our constitution enshrines the rights of all people to practice their religions so long as it’s done peacefully, you know that.’
‘What if it’s a cult? What if they brainwash teenagers and take them back with them? Did you see how young some of them are? What does the South African law say then?’
‘I don’t know, Paola. It’s not my field.’
‘Will you at least see what else you can find out about them?’
‘I’ll ask around if anyone knows anything. But you have to stay away from them. You can’t go anywhere near them, do you understand? Next time they’ll put you in jail pending a hearing and that could take days, even weeks, depending on the charge. You’ll be together with the drug-dealers and the prostitutes and whoever else … Are you listening, Paola? I won’t be able to stop them.’ Hans Merensky was a decent fellow who took his career as a family lawyer seriously, so he used his stock phrase, the one that could be relied on to get through to me. ‘Who will look after your daughter then?’
I didn’t tell Simone about my run-in with the cloaked fanatics on the corner or that I was arrested. But later that night, as I was sitting on the balcony, nursing my bruised wrists, something came back to me with monstrous clarity.
It’s the year 2007, almost two years ago, and I’m back in the attic office above W&W&W, the esoteric bookshop that Elijah manages. We’re trapped in that unreal dance of death. Elijah’s jocular voice is pretending there are no Limbo Files that will implode in RMI’s belly. His owlish pale blue eyes are pleading with me to play along and stay alive, for Simone. But the tall thug behind me in the balaclava doesn’t believe Elijah. ‘That’s enough, shut his trap,’ he says. He’s holding me back with a single black-gloved hand around my neck. And whoever he is, he enjoys garlic in his food.
I scrambled into the lounge and grabbed my mobile and dialled the number for Detective Klaus Knappman − our Special Forces assigned protector from way back when he and his men stopped a black SUV with a young girl in it − but there was no reply from his mobile. I reached him on his desk number.
‘I want to see his file.’
‘Wie se file?’ Klaus said. He sounded like it was a long night after a long day.
‘The guy who attacked me. I want to know who he is.’
‘Wag ’n bietjie, Paola. Are you talking about today? What I heard is that you were the one doing the attacking. Qamarana was just doing his job.’
‘Qamarana? You know him? Are you all in cahoots or something? Who must I wait for? Yes, I’m talking about today, but I’m wondering why nobody took a statement from me about how I nearly got my throat slit by a maniac with a knife, more than ten days ago.’
‘Hell Paola. The whole police force is overloaded. They’ll get to you. You’ll see him in court.’
‘You’re protecting him because it’s Qamarana.’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘Bliksem. I don’t need this today, Paola.’
‘I’m right, aren’t I? It’s him. He’s one of the thugs who murdered Elijah. He came out of nowhere today. He’s just waiting for the right moment so it looks natural, then he’ll finish me off and they can do what they want to Simone.’
‘Why do you think this?’ Klaus asked, trying the rational, fact-finding detective approach.
‘I finally figured out what was bothering me about him: the smell of garlic. You can disguise your voice − anyway the balaclava does that for you − but you can’t mistake the stink of evil.’
‘Ag nee, Paola. All the criminals wear a balaclava. And the smell of garlic is now the stink of evil? Jou perspektief is verlore. Can’t you see? It’s shock from the arrest. Qamarana had no choice but to take you in. He had to defuse what could have become an international incident.’
‘Oh, please. An international incident? I’m losing perspective? The other night I was mugged. Today I was arrested. They actually locked me up in a holding cell that stank of piss and vomit, Klaus! How long are you going to wait before you stop him?’
Klaus sighed. ‘Your attacker attacked other female joggers in the past. I’ve seen his file. You were lucky the other night. He’s got a couple of rape convictions on his record but no murder charges.’
I absorbed this news. It was definitely a cattle prod from now on.
‘It’s not Qamarana?’
‘Ek sweer dit. Qamarana likes to throw his weight around. But he’s got a nose like a German Shepherd when there’s trouble around. He likes garlic? So does my brother-in-law who’s about the same build.’
He filled the silence.
‘If you smelt garlic on your attacker put it in your statement.’
The truth was it happened too fast. The whiff of garlic was in the night air as the big-gloved hands yanked me up, but it’s as if there were several of me there that night: the one fighting back with her nails and teeth and feet to no effect; the one analytically taking note of everything that was happening to her in pellucid detail; and the one screaming inwardly at the possibility of being dragged off into the dark undergrowth by a violent criminal who was also possibly a rapist. There was thick breathing vegetation and soil, and the peaty earth in my mouth, and the animal scent of my own fear.
‘I don’t know for sure about that night,’ I said. ‘I was too terrified. But it’s been there whenever Qamarana was there, and it was there when Elijah was killed …’
‘We’ll keep an eye on him,’ Klaus promised. ‘Maar jy moenie paranoid word nie, Paola.’ Don’t go paranoid on me, he begged. ‘That’s when things go pampoen shaped and you start concentrating on the wrong things. Just get on with your life. You can’t let fear rule you.’
‘Klaus, my life went pumpkin shaped a long time ago. Why are you still at work?’
‘Another two detectives resigned. The private security companies are offering houses and overseas trips … Ag, anything they can. Even a SUV.’
‘Have you eaten anything? You sound hungry.’
‘You sound like somebody’s wife … Shit, I’m sorry, Paola.’
‘It’s okay, I forget it myself sometimes. That I’m actually somebody’s wife. So … have you?’
‘Lucas had some pizza delivered.’ He laughed. ‘With extra garlic. You see, we policemen like our garlic. I’ll have some just now.’
Klaus didn’t have much of a life himself. He once had a fling with my neighbour Kiki − they met through Simone − and he even went to watch Kiki do her sinuous Queen of the Jungle strip routine with a live albino python at the Pompadour nightclub, which must have been an eye-opener for farm boy Klaus, but it didn’t last long. Kiki had shrugged when I’d asked and said both of them worked too irregular hours. It hadn’t fazed Kiki that the owners of Pompadour were the infamous Sarrazins − she said the Russian clients tipped well − but I’d wondered privately if her connection to the criminal underworld hadn’t had something to do with their break-up.
Klaus is right. It doesn’t help to look backwards. And having chronic garlic breath isn’t proof. But I know what I know.
Tell me a secret (VI)
https://secrets.net/chatlounge/
(Everyone. Has one. What’s yours?)
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butterfly: |
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Are you still awake? |
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diable: |
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Hello winged Lepidoptera. What nectar fields have you been exploring? |
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butterfly: |
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You were right. How did you know? |
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diable: |
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I’m always right. I’m the devil |
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butterfly: |
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I believed her that the study was his room |
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diable: |
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Everybody has secrets. You just have to find them. |
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butterfly: |
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She was using it to hide things. That’s why she keeps it locked. She lied to me |
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diable: |
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Welcome to the game. It’s time to become a player. Now that you know how the world works |
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butterfly: |
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I thought she was different. I trusted her |
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diable: |
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Nobody is different |
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butterfly: |
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Not even you? |
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diable: |
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You can always talk to the devil. You know that |
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butterfly: |
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Sometimes i think i just tell you everything because i can’t see you |
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diable: |
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Now you are hurting my feelings. Recant or i will log off and you will suffer from terrible insomnia……!! |
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butterfly: |
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Stop having a hernia. Sometimes i think you are the only person who understands me |
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diable: |
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Not the only … there are others of us. What did you find? |
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butterfly: |
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I found a book. I think my father wrote it. It came in the post |
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diable: |
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Think? The suspense is unbearable |
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butterfly: |
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I recognised his handwriting on the wrapping |
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diable: |
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Alors, so he has a nom de plume? Or should I say a nom de guerre? |
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butterfly: |
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ENGLISH frenchie |
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diable: |
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You are being very secretive sweet butterfly. |
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butterfly: |
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Butterfly is a flaky name. Maybe i’ll be limbo girl from now on |
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diable: |
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Does this have something to do with your father’s book? |
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butterfly: |
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For me to know and you to find out |